


Black Coffee

by aishahiwatari



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Swearing, optional smut chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21522754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Hughie really needs this job.And, okay, he wants his boss to need him too.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 61
Kudos: 642





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much all of the plot ("plot") happens in chapter one. Chapter 2 will be largely gratuitous smut, to which all the sex-related tags apply.

Okay, Hughie thinks to himself. He can do this. And even if he can’t, he’s just going to have to fake it ‘til he makes it because he really needs this job.

It kind of follows the same thought process as a lot of his life decisions. He has to think it pretty intently, though, because he’s not convinced. His dad got him the interview -and that kind of says it all, really- because the ad asked for relevant experience and although Hughie has worked in customer service and retail, apparently a coffee shop can afford to be more selective.

It’s not exactly the average coffee shop though. It’s called Black Coffee, and the sign is clearly spray painted by someone with more enthusiasm than talent, so it kind of looks hipster. From what Hughie has heard, though, this is the place all those hipster joints aspire to be.

He steps inside. The room is full of mismatched furniture that Hughie can tell -from personal experience because, alright, his family’s never had that much money- is genuinely used and worn, not just designed to look that way from the start. There’s some exposed brickwork and copper pipe around the walls, but it looks like more of a neglect issue than an aesthetic choice. Still, the tables are- actually, no, they’re not clean either, scattered with crumbs and covered in coffee stains.

Hughie hadn’t realised they served food, but beneath the smell of roasting coffee there is the glorious scent of baking, flour and sugar and spices. He can hear someone clattering around in a kitchen, too, and it takes him a moment to realise why that seems unusual. There’s no music playing. There’s very little ambient noise at all, only a low murmur of occasional conversation, not even the clink of mugs because all the drinks seem to be served in disposable paper cups.

Cautiously, Hughie approaches the counter. There’s a young man sat behind it, perched on a stool, looking moderately intimidating and incredibly bored or at the very least deeply high. He’s attractive -yes, Hughie notices- with dark hair, dark eyes, although his features are a little drawn, shaded.

He nods an acknowledgement at Hughie.

“Uhh- hi. I heard you guys were hiring. I’m here for an interview?”

“Name?”

“Uhh- Hughie. Campbell.”

“Hughie,” the man repeats, thoughtfully, fiddling with something behind the register. Hughie smells the acrid tang of permanent marker before he’s handed a name badge with his first name written on it. “Tables are there. Garbage bin is behind the counter. Recyclables go in the blue bin. Liquids down the sink. I will show you how the coffee machine works. Do not go in the kitchen. Yes?”

That last part, spoken in the same ambivalent French accent as the rest, isn’t directed at Hughie. There’s a customer behind him. He ducks out the way, too confused to override his natural inclination towards anxious manners.

The customer orders two black coffees and they’re produced with quick, efficient movements at the espresso machine, two dollars taken as payment with a tap of a card before the cups are handed over in silence. Hughie blinks, but the customer seems unsurprised, maybe even grateful as they leave.

The man behind the counter turns back to Hughie. “Aprons are hanging on the wall just there. We close at seven today, so-“ he stabs at a few buttons on the register so the drawer opens with a chime and then counts out a few bills. “Four hours at twenty dollars an hour- eighty.”

He literally hands over eighty dollars in cash, and Hughie stares at him, open-mouthed. “Do you not need my- social, or something?”

“Ask me again at seven. If you still want the job. Yes?”

Well, that smile doesn’t exactly fill Hughie with confidence, but here are more customers, somehow, so Hughie retreats again, this time in the direction of those aprons, pocketing the cash. It’s more money than he’s seen in weeks. If he’s given free coffee as well it might just tip him over the edge. He dons the apron, ties it around his waist, takes a few deep breaths and a moment to pin his name badge on, not that the guy behind the counter is wearing one.

“You the new guy?”

“Uhh-“ Hughie stammers at the large, intimidating guy who’s emerged from the kitchen, tray of scones in hand.

“Try this.”

Hughie takes a scone as he’s bid, cautiously bites into a corner of it and groans as fruity, buttery goodness dissolves on his tongue. “That is amazing.”

The guy hums thoughtfully. “Frenchie. Try this.”

“They could taste like ambrosia itself, he will still hate them.” But Frenchie -apparently- reaches for one all the same, takes a bite and nods appreciatively before turning to the next customer while continuing to eat. Hughie’s pretty sure that violates a number of health codes. But he’s basically doing the same thing. He vaguely hunts for a cloth behind the counter so he can sneak another bite, so much more satisfying than the last few days of instant ramen, to the approval of the baker, who doesn’t bother to introduce himself before he disappears back into the kitchen to clatter around some more.

Hughie tucks his scone away in a corner, grabs some disposable paper towels and something that resembles disinfectant spray, and starts clearing tables.

Considering it’s a weekday afternoon and there’s a Starbucks down the street -and the next street, and the next- it stays steadily busy. Hughie’s grateful it doesn’t give him too much time to think about the cash burning a hole in his pocket or about feeling Frenchie’s eyes on him whenever his back is turned. He wipes tables, recycles what he can, hasn’t seen a single reusable cup in the whole place actually, he realises.

Occasionally, between jobs, he manages another few bites of his scone. Frenchie doesn’t comment or even appear to notice or care. A few people request baked goods from the display cabinet that’s filled with pretty standard fare; cookies, muffins, brownies, all handmade with labels handwritten in the same script and sharpie as Hughie’s name badge.

A few of the customers -regulars, he guesses- double-take when they see him although nobody says anything. People don’t really say much in there at all, Hughie notices, only the bare minimum to order or exchange between those sat at the same table. If people only want black filter coffee, sometimes they don’t even say the words. They just hand over cash. It should be peaceful. It’s kind of disconcerting.

At around six o’clock, a car screeches to a halt outside in what’s marked as a delivery bay. It’s an old car, the paint mismatched. And Hughie is no expert on human behaviour, but he notices a gathering tension about the place in the few moments before the driver of the car strides through the door. It slams open so loud the glass rattles in the frame, and Hughie knows enough that he focuses more on looking busy than he does on staring but even so, he notices that fuck, he’s hot. Tall, dark and smouldering in an outwardly furious sort of way, dressed somehow terribly but in a way that definitely works for him, he shoots Hughie an alarmed look and then keeps walking.

“Frenchie,” he greets, gets a nod in return, before he unceremoniously shoulders past him to print out a report from the register. Hughie is still studiously not staring.

“MM’s been working on potential new products today,” Frenchie says. It would be casual, conversational, probably seems that way since the two of them are in the wrong place to see MM -really?- shoot a look that is both betrayed and murderous at Frenchie through the wall.

Hughie needs to throw some things in the garbage, doesn’t dare get between them. He piles up a few more cups and stays out of the way.

"MM!" the man calls. He's got some sort of accent or something, one that becomes more pronounced when MM emerges from the kitchen with a single scone on a plate and earns a definitive, "No."

"At least taste it."

"What is it?"

Hughie frowns. He's kind of staring, now, along with half the customers. MM sighs, rolls his eyes, eventually begrudgingly admits, even though the problem isn't immediately apparent. "It's a scone."

"No it fucking isn't. Bin 'em."

"Butcher!"

“You know my views on scones-“ he says it like the word is scons, and Hughie realises with a start that he’s British. British and kind of militant about baked goods, apparently. “Make them properly, you can sell as many as you want. Now get these iced triangular atrocities out of my fucking sight.”

Butcher -is that a nickname, too? Hughie wouldn’t be surprised- walks away, leaving MM to call after him. “If I make them round, can I sell them?”

“You make them round, I’ll try them. You-“ Butcher points a finger at Hughie, who does his best to look helpfully accommodating rather than startled and anxious- “Office, now.”

Hughie hurries to follow, because he has no idea where the office is and Butcher shows no intention of waiting for him to catch up. He throws away the cups he’s been hoarding, wipes coffee from his hands onto his apron, heads down a corridor behind the counter that leads to a few doors, one of which Butcher is unlocking. Hughie is entirely unashamedly given a thorough once-over as Butcher turns to usher him inside although, Hughie notes, despite the tight space offering him the opportunity, he doesn’t touch. It makes him feel a little better about being crammed into a tiny office with a terrifying stranger, just a desk between them.

Butcher takes the chair behind it, leans back and props his booted feet up on the desk. Hughie’s never seen anyone make a Hawaiian shirt look intimidating before. He sinks into the seat on the other side, glances around. The room’s tiny, barely big enough for those few items of furniture, the two of them, a cash safe and a filing cabinet. If Butcher sat properly, his and Hughie’s knees would be touching.

“You’re Hugh’s kid, right?” Butcher asks, and Hughie has so many fucking questions for his dad.

“Uhh, yeah. Hughie. Nice to meet you.” He risks holding out his hand. Butcher takes it with a knowing smirk and fuck, his hands are huge. He’s a big guy, and Hughie’s not exactly tiny. He learns, too, that he is talking to Billy Butcher. Not a nickname, them.

“We worked together once. Back in the day,” Butcher says, as he settles back in his seat again. “He worked hard. Was good at what he did. Says you’re the same. We’d be happy to have you on board. Reckon you can handle it?”

It can’t be sexual. It just can’t. This man worked with Hughie’s dad, has hired him based on his recommendation. “Yes. I’m happy to be here.”

“Alright.” Butcher sighs, looks around, picks up a form that’s been left on the top of the safe and slides it across the desk to Hughie. “Fill this out. I’m getting coffee.”

He strides out. Hughie is left staring at a piece of paper with the words _For Employers Only_ emblazoned across the top. He guesses it is only his information that he’ll see, begins to fill it out as best he can. After a while Butcher returns with coffee for both of them, sits and drinks his in silence while he watches Hughie struggle.

“Do you- is this your registered office?” Hughie risks asking, receives a nod in response amiably enough. “Are you the- business owner?”

That -for some reason Hughie may never know- brings a shadow across Butcher’s expression, although he does nod.

“Is it- William?”

Butcher grimaces but nods.

Like that, they get through the form. Hughie slides it back over the desk and Butcher locks it in the safe, presumably for someone else to deal with later.

By the time they make it back out, Frenchie’s flipped the sign on the door and is running the coffee machine through a cleaning cycle. It looks like he’s cleared the tables. Hughie sips his cooling coffee, feeling awkward, but Frenchie gives him a wink that seems reasonably friendly.

“You’ll work the afternoon shift. Twelve til eight, Monday to Friday. If you finish early, find something to clean. Twenty quid an hour,” Butcher grins at Hughie’s lingering uncertainty; that still seems like a lot, but- “Plus tips,” he adds, nodding in the direction of the empty, dusty tip jar. Yeah. Point taken. “Any questions? Good. Mop the floor or something then fuck off. If you’re not out the door by eight I’m locking you in here with me.”

He's already walking away, doesn’t see Hughie’s expression crease with the conflicting dread and desire that threat triggers.

Frenchie sees, though, and he rolls his eyes, points wordlessly at the mop and bucket propped in the corner. Hughie hangs his head and goes.

-

He learns a lot that first week.

Frenchie doesn’t say much to customers, but he’s incredibly talkative once he gets going. His English is fluent, usually flawless, although he miraculously loses a great deal of his understanding and plasters on a benign smile when anybody is rude or entitled.

Hughie’s a little worried the first time Butcher emerges from the office to witness that in action. Frenchie hasn’t seen him and Hughie can’t get his attention, just watches the customer get more and more aggravated until she demands to see the manager.

Even then, Frenchie doesn’t look concerned. He turns, apparently surprised, but pleasantly so, to see Butcher.

Butcher listens to the woman’s complaints with an unreadable expression and narrowed eyes. If anything, his indifference intensifies when she starts talking about immigrants and their place in the job market. When she’s done, she demands a free drink, “For the trouble.”

Butcher calls her a cunt four times before she finally snaps and storms out. Hughie doesn’t count; he’s too stunned, staring, but Frenchie holds up another finger each time, keeping track, and he’s laughing by the time the door slams behind the poor woman. Butcher shakes his head, rolls his eyes, unphased.

Hughie can’t stand it. It goes against every single aspect of consumer culture he knows. “Free coffee for anyone who leaves an honest, positive review on our google page right now.”

It looks like Frenchie considers the genuine merit of that particular offer. Butcher’s staring at Hughie like he’s just spoken another language but he nods when Frenchie glances his way, questioning whether to serve the first person who shows their phone screen as evidence.

Honestly there are too many negative reviews for it to make a real difference, but it ups their average score a bit anyway. The entire pool of reviews is made up of those who love the place and scored it five stars, and those who upset Frenchie or Butcher and left unappeased. None of them ever say anything about the coffee itself.

Butcher looks begrudgingly impressed by Hughie’s quick reaction, anyway, claps him on the shoulder when he checks the updated score on his phone.

Hughie gets a less favourable reaction when he tries another of MM’s creations. It’s delicious, more savoury than he had been expecting when he bit into it and before he can think, he asks, “Is this a biscuit?”

Something shatters in the storeroom, close to where Butcher was last seen.

“Why, man?” MM asks Hughie, throwing his hands up.

Hughie’s not exactly sure what he’s done wrong until Butcher storms out to say his piece with about all the emotion Hughie has so far seen him muster. “It’s a fucking scone.”

“This one actually is a scone,” MM tells Hughie, although he ignores Butcher’s pronunciation and the glare he earns for it. “You said you’d try it.”

“Did you follow the recipe?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly?”

“Yes, damnit.”

“Well, then, I’m sure they’re fucking delightful. I’m going out.”

He doesn’t come back until after Hughie leaves at eight even though he lives above the shop.

Frenchie doesn’t seem too worried. “He is- oh what is the word?- an asshole. Don’t let him get to you.”

It’s probably good advice. Hughie doesn’t take it.

-

“He’s good to you though, isn’t he?” his dad asks, when Hughie risks asking whether Butcher’s always been so- like that.

“Yeah, he’s-“ Hughie recalls various moments of affectionate swearing; the time Butcher had winked and hooked an arm around his waist to deter a particularly friendly customer who had been accompanied by six other women having some sort of bachelorette party. “He’s good. Just- intense.”

“He’s British, though. I think they’re all like that.”

Hughie doesn’t think that’s true. They’d never get anything done over there. Wouldn’t have managed to accumulate an empire. “He seems like- I don’t know, he should be some kind of old school cop or something. Not running a coffee shop. What did he do when you knew him?”

His dad changes the subject. Hughie doesn’t want to let it go, but all he manages to figure out by pushing it is that Butcher was some kind of smooth operator existing vaguely outside the law, and he got involved in some project his dad was working on, apparently legitimately. They were drinking buddies. Hughie can’t imagine that. Sort of doesn’t want to.

“You guys never-“ he ventures without entirely wanting to hear the answer for any number of reasons, doesn’t examine his resultant flood of relief too closely when his dad shakes his head and laughs.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“I mean I can’t say I would never have considered it.”

“Dad!”

“He’s got that whole tall, dark and handsome thing going for him. Always did. But- I had you, and God knows he would never have strayed. Such a shame what happened.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I guess you would have been too young to really remember. His wife just disappeared one day. Never came back. She was nice. What was her name? Bethany? Brenda?”

-

Becca, Hughie realises with a by-now familiar stabbing sensation through his heart when he’s searching through old receipts and finds the signed invoice. As always, he wonders what she’s like, doesn’t dare ask, gets called a cunt twice in a day for getting lost in his thoughts instead of working. Butcher doesn’t seem that annoyed, though. It’s a kind of culturally accepted, and with the way Butcher treats MM and Frenchie, it would actually feel more like some kind of discrimination if Hughie were left out of the- banter.

Butcher uses that word to describe what a lot of other employers would call bullying, abuse or sexual harassment. Somehow he makes it work. He’s got a kind of bluff charm and Hughie is utterly enchanted by every aspect of him. He’s hopeless.

There’s a sound system in one of the back rooms. Hughie finds it when he’s cleaning late one night, when Frenchie’s left him to it, but he’s forgotten to close the door to that room. There’s other stuff in there, too, just the fuse box and the electric meter.

The sound system is dusty, unused for some time, although it seems like it works when Hughie experimentally switches it on at the wall. There’s a laptop connected to it, too, an ancient one, although it boots up fine. iTunes opens automatically and Hughie grimaces at it, although at least it’s easy enough to scroll through the playlist marked _Shop._ There’s a disconcerting amount of nineties pop on there, and Hughie honestly can’t reconcile any of it with the people he knows until he minimises the window and nearly has a heart attack when he sees the desktop background.

It's a gorgeous, sunny photograph of a beautiful woman and -Hughie’s mouth falls open and he covers it with a hand- a smiling, clean-shaven Butcher, looking years younger and making Hughie’s heart ache with how badly he wants to see that smile light up Butcher’s face again. He touches the screen, and then he realises what the fuck he’s doing and he needs to get out, except he needs to shut this ancient machine down and for some godforsaken reason it’s connected to the internet and needs to install roughly eight thousand updates and the touchpad mouse thing is fucking terrible and somehow he manages to hit play.

The Spice Girls are bad at the best of times, but at ear-splitting volume that makes the whole building vibrate, they’re fucking awful. Hughie scrambles to correct his error, struggles with accursed shaking fingers and a heart rate of about one-eighty, and it takes a strong arm looping around his waist and hauling him back against a broad, solid chest to convince him to stop trying, a steady hand already coming down on the keyboard shortcut that makes it stop. 

Hughie lets out an actual sigh of relief and Butcher chuckles in his ear, is practically holding him upright as he sags.

“Sorry,” Hughie breathes, after the indefinite period of time that makes him realise just how inappropriate their positions are.

“Accidents happen.” It can’t be unintentional that Butcher speaks directly into Hughie’s ear, so he feels the warmth of his breath, the brush of his beard against his cheek, and shivers involuntarily.

Somehow, Hughie manages to say, “If you wanna talk about it-“ although at that point he kind of trails off, because he’s not really sure what he’s offering.

“Fuck off, Hughie,” is murmured with warm affection, anyway, and if the sound of his name in that voice, so close, makes Hughie swallow wetly, well, Butcher definitely hears it, and he doesn’t let go.

Not until Hughie relaxes, anyway, and then Butcher eases him out the door and tells him to fuck off again, only this time he means it.

When Hughie looks back, he’s staring at the computer screen, and he reaches out to slowly close the lid of the laptop.

Hughie goes before Butcher can catch him watching, but as soon as that door closes behind him, he regrets it.

“Fuck,” he says.

And then it starts to rain.

-

“You any good in the kitchen?” MM asks him the next day, as they sample peanut butter cookies.

“I’m- not bad,” Hughie says, which is technically true. He can’t be terrible at something he never does.

“We’ll get you on a food hygiene course. Means I might get a couple of days off once in a while.”

It’s- not completely a surprise. Hughie already knows how to work the espresso machine, has covered for Frenchie a few times. He knows that no amount of enthusiasm will get him tipped; mostly it just freaks people out. But he’s paid enough to make up for it, and it means the work is less exhausting. He’d never realised how much energy he expended on pretending to be happy, before.

He also earns weird, approving smiles from Butcher whenever he hands over coffees without saying a word. It makes him feel good, even if he knows that entertaining a crush on his unattainable, gorgeous older boss is going to be fruitless and deeply depressing in the long run.

He can dream. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like he even wanted to.

“Can Frenchie not bake?” he asks, though, because it does sort of feel like he’s upsetting the hierarchy a bit, here.

“He’s a fantastic baker. Back when we started, he was the one in here. Now he won’t even cover my shifts.”

“What happened?” Hughie asks, and even mid-sentence he realises it’s a ridiculous question. There’s only one thing that could possibly have happened. “Butcher?”

MM sighs. “Butcher.”

-

The food hygiene course is terrifyingly easy, and a number of his classmates make him despair for the future of every restaurant in the state.

With nothing to really do for the day, he goes back to the shop after he’s done, makes a start on his knowledge of the kitchen now he’s actually allowed to set foot in there. He’s not going to be cooking up any new ideas anytime soon, but he can follow a recipe easily enough, gets a few hints from MM before he needs to head home.

At eight, a beautiful woman walks in. She makes no attempt to speak to Hughie, who’s cleaning up behind the counter, and he’s just about to ask if he can help her when Butcher emerges from the back room.

“Kimiko!” he greets with a beaming smile and open arms she steps into with ease. They hug. Hughie tries not to stare. He fails. She looks so tiny in his arms.

“How are you, love?” Butcher asks, too, and she smiles benignly, gives a sort of half-shrugging nod. _So-so._ “Well, you look fantastic, as always. Want coffee?”

She shakes her head, although she concedes when Butcher procures a bag of decaf from behind the counter. The coffee machine is clean, but he fills a French press and talks to her quietly at one of the tables while it brews. He pours her a cup, and he pours one for himself, and he snaps his fingers in Hughie’s direction to offer him one, too.

Too surprised to decline, Hughie nods. Kimiko eyes him curiously but not rudely, smiles when he approaches.

“This is Hughie. He’s been keeping us all in line.” Butcher winks at him, then, ignores Hughie’s doubtful look and Kimiko’s raised eyebrows. Still, she doesn’t say a word.

“I don’t think you even know where the line is,” Hughie speaks to Butcher instead, not wanting to pressure her. He doesn’t know if it’s a physical thing or an anxiety thing, but it’s none of his business if she doesn’t choose to share.

“More than welcome to go work and fucking Starbucks if you want, Hughie.”

“No, don’t!” Hughie clutches at Butcher’s arm, pleads with his eyes. “I’ll be good. Don’t send me to Starbucks. Green is not my colour.”

Kimiko watches them with her chin propped in her palm and a smile that broadens when she catches sight of something behind them. She slides out of her seat to go to Frenchie, who picks her up, spins her around, murmurs affectionally to her in French.

They’re adorable.

“Wow,” Hughie says, without really meaning to, and Butcher eyes him, smiling himself.

“Yep. Perfect in every way but for her taste in men,” he says, loud enough to be overheard, and he snorts when they both give him the finger without turning their respective adoring gazes away from each other.

As they leave, hand in hand, she waves to Hughie, and kisses Butcher’s cheek.

-

MM’s wife, on the other hand, glares with such open vitriol that Hughie can almost see her imagining how best to hit Butcher around the face. Her car’s outside, her kid staring through the window at them all, not even allowed in.

“What the fuck?” Hughie asks, almost rhetorically, as she and MM leave.

“Yeah, she hates me,” Butcher replies, though, and even though it’s almost eight, he gestures to one of the tables, makes them both coffee, pours a shot of whisky into his. He offers Hughie one too, and he nods, because he’s not about to risk losing another important moment.

After a sip, a grimace and a trip to the fridge to retrieve whipped cream, Butcher continues, “She thinks I’m holding him back. MM could be a baker, he could have his own business, he could be making anything. Working at some swanky hotel and earning a decent wage, doing decent hours. But instead, he’s here with me.”

“He could leave, though, right? If he wanted. You’d let him go.”

“I’m not fucking holding him hostage. But- I was supposed to open this place with Becca. It was all her idea. Without her, MM thinks that leaving me and Frenchie to run it on our own would be like signing a fucking death warrant. I can’t really blame him.”

Hughie’s not going to ask what happened. He’s going to let Butcher have his privacy, and only share what he chooses, but his thoughts are entirely derailed by the sight of Butcher licking cream from his top lip and the words are out before he can stop them. “What happened?”

“She’s not fucking dead, Hughie, you don’t need to look so fucking terrified. We were setting this up. I was still working to try and help pay for it, while she sorted out actually running the place. She went on some- management course, and then about a week before we were due to open she ran off with some cunt who runs a Starbucks.”

“Wow.”

“Yep.” Butcher sloshes more whisky into his coffee, doesn’t offer, this time. “All my fucking money was in this. MM and Frenchie helped me out. Just while I get started, I said. Eight years later-“ Butcher gestures to the room at large, sighs.

“My girlfriend did die,” it seems as good a time as any to bring up. Butcher is giving him that same almost-bored look he gives customers when they rant at him and he’s refusing to react in any visible way. “A car mounted the pavement. Drug driver. I was stood right there. And he was- working for some big corporation, I guess. They paid me off, so I’d agree not to say anything. I still have the cheque. Haven’t cashed it. Don’t want it. My dad wouldn’t let me tear it up. And then I lost my job because I just kept having anxiety attacks all the time.”

It's not something Hughie really talks about, outside the few months of therapy after it happened. The Vought corporation was willing to pay for it as part of the settlement and he hadn’t been able to think of anything better to do at the time, but it had helped.

Before he can begin to feel conscious of all he’s offloaded, though, Butcher says, “Sometimes I smash the windows at Starbucks just because I can.”

Hughie’s laughing before he’s even really realised what’s been said. “What? Butcher.”

“You should cash the cheque.”

“Don’t-“

“No, I fucking mean it. Doesn’t matter if you use it. Fucking get it out the bank in dollar bills and have a fucking bonfire, if you want. The point is, after you’re done, they’ll have less. Sometimes it’s all you can do. Bring them down a bit. Maybe they’ll go under a few months sooner ‘cause of you.”

Hughie can kind of see the twisted logic and he fucking hates it. That cheque is an insult to Robin’s memory, a vicious calculation of her worth that will always come up infinitely short.

He considers it for a while.

Staring at forty-seven thousand dollars in his bank account gives him the same empty, aching feeling as staring at the cheque had. He does a little research. And then he invests the money in one of Vought’s competitors.

And that makes him smile.

And if his smile sticks around all day because he didn’t quite invest all of it and Butcher laughs for a full five minutes when he finds the gift-wrapped brick on his desk, well. Nobody needs to know his reasons.

He probably shouldn’t have stopped seeing that therapist.


	2. Chapter 2

Some days, Hughie stops in the park to eat breakfast before work.

And on one of those days, the girl sitting next to him bursts into tears. Fuck. Hughie casts a desperate look around, but there is literally nobody else who’s going to ask, “Are you okay?”

She’s not okay. She talks for a while, and then they talk. Her name is Annie. She’s very sweet. Hughie likes her.

He’s late to work for the first time ever. Somehow, he doesn’t think that saying he had to listen to a random stranger’s troubles will fly with Butcher, so he makes something up about a plumbing emergency at home.

The lie’s accepted so easily he feels guilty all day.

He sees Annie again, a few times. She’s strong and smart and funny and if Hughie felt like he was in any way ready for a serious, committed relationship he’d probably do something about it. But she has too many issues of her own for him to start piling his own on top of them, and he doesn’t want to be her sole source of support when she’s clearly going through a lot.

He enjoys their fairly regular breakfast dates, though, and his improved mood is noticed at work by MM, who teases him mercilessly. Occasionally, Hughie thinks that there’s no way Butcher hasn’t noticed, but he never says anything, and since he’s not treating Hughie any differently, Hughie can’t bring it up either.

He and Annie don’t really talk about work, except in the vaguest sense. He knows she’s a manger, that she has responsibility for a lot of people and frequent arguments with her fellow managers.

So the first time she rummages in her bag and he catches sight of the green apron, he thinks- fuck.

And then he thinks, well, might as well stop by and get a Frappuccino the next time he’s passing, and try to cheer her up.

And he just continues living his life.

Until one day, he goes to work. He doesn’t notice anything is different, right away. He doesn’t see Butcher for hours, but he’s always out, doing unspecified things, so he thinks nothing of it. He just waves to Frenchie and Kimiko as they leave, and finishes closing up.

He's just checking the bathrooms, restocking the paper when he hears the door open and close, then the sound of familiar booted footsteps. He’s conscious that he probably shouldn’t be able to recognise Butcher by his footsteps and, distracted by his thoughts, he nearly walks into the broad figure blocking the door to the larger accessible toilet, jerks to a halt and stares.

It’s so unfair how hot Butcher is, arms folded over his chest as he glowers, unmoving, in the face of Hughie’s confusion.

Hughie’s in trouble. It makes his heart pound and his cock twitch and he’s used to both those things, working as he does with the object of his hopeless crush, but it’s rarely so intense, never threatens to be overwhelming. He feels kind of light-headed, lifts his chin and sets his jaw to compensate, is unspeakably glad his voice comes out steady when he asks, “What’s up?”

Because even he’s not stupid enough to admit guilt before being challenged. Even if Butcher’s eyes narrow and Hughie knows immediately that whatever’s coming is going to be worse for him later as a result. He should resent the unspoken accusation. Mostly he’s trying not to get hard.

It is not working.

Butcher gives him a long, lingering once-over and arches a brow. Like there are physical signs of his supposed betrayal right there for anyone to see, as long as they look closely enough. “You like working here, Hughie?”

God, fuck, it does not help when Butcher says his name like that, dark and dangerous and full of promise. “Of course.”

Fuck, wait, no, this isn’t enough for Butcher to consider it worth firing him, is it? Hughie thinks he’s proved his worth and his loyalty but there are clearly some deep-seated issues right there. Hughie’s changed his route into work so he can occasionally pick up a dessert masquerading as a coffee and say hi to Annie, and maybe he’s noticed the broken windows a little more often than previously.

He should have known they were building up to something.

Butcher’s always building up to something. Right now, he’s building up to backing Hughie into the tiny little room, and if he didn’t know how regularly MM cleaned in here Hughie might be concerned about their environment.

Hughie makes an involuntary, surprised sound when his back hits the wall, swallows thickly as Butcher’s hands come to rest either side of his head. When Hughie dares to meet his eyes, Butcher’s are dark and intent. He honestly has no idea if he’s about to get fucked or fired.

Knowing Butcher, he could seamlessly do both.

“No complaints? No desire to be- looking for employment elsewhere?”

“None,” Hughie breathes, and he means it, too. This place feels like the closest thing he’s ever had to a future.

“Now you’re a smart boy, Hughie. I think you know what this is about.”

“I’m not a boy, and if you think I am this is creepy.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Hughie’s already breathing quicker than he should be, for someone standing completely still. “I swear. I don’t want to work anywhere but here. You gave me a chance. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“We could run the shop without you.”

“Fuck the shop. You know why I’m still here.”

“Maybe I wanna hear you say it.”

“I-“ Hughie’s always had roughly two thirds of the nerve he really needs to do anything meaningful, and in that moment it threatens to run out. This is ridiculous, too, because all he’s done is make a friend and buy a couple of overpriced coffees and that does not give Butcher the right to be so fucking overbearing when all Hughie does is work for him. And he works pretty fucking hard, actually, not that anybody ever bothers to say thank you or suggest they might have any appreciation for him beyond this twisted possessiveness that’s currently being demonstrated.

“Come on, Hughie.” Butcher leans in, and Hughie has the startling realisation that he was actually right, before, with his instincts. He could get fired, or fucked, in this moment, and the only one who gets to choose which is him. “Just tell me the truth.”

Hughie only chokes on one false start before he manages to say, “I’m here because of you.”

And then he almost chokes again because Butcher is kissing him and he hadn’t thought he’d go for that, on those occasions when he’s thought about it, but he’s warm and strong and solid and he smiles when Hughie attempts to pull him closer with fists clenched in the front of his shirt.

Attempts being the operative word, here, because he doesn’t move. It’s like yanking on a wall with terrible fashion sense, but with Butcher’s hands supporting his weight, still, Hughie is free to move his own body. He presses in close instead, makes Butcher snarl and take hold of him but fuck, that’s exactly what he wants, Butcher’s fingers in his hair, hands cradling his face, tilting his head so he can slide his tongue along Hughie’s bottom lip. He tastes of coffee, feels hot inside like he’s just finished drinking it, and Hughie finds it difficult to suppress his smile at the comparison, Butcher hot and bitter but seemingly so much less so after the first taste.

He’s eased back against the wall, too, a thigh pressed between his like Butcher is trying to contain him, like there’s any possibility he might want to escape this, like he can’t feel how hard Hughie is through his jeans. Having the breath kissed out of him is distracting, and Hughie’s hands are clumsy and uncooperative, but he’s been tortured for months by the vee of Butcher’s chest that’s habitually revealed and there aren’t that many buttons to fight before he can reach more.

He touches, traces the shapes hidden beneath the expanse of glorious, soft skin, wishes he could see better but also never wants this kiss to end, wants to keep the overwhelming rush of the light-headedness he’s been drowning in since this began.

And Butcher crushes their hips together and fuck, he’s hard too, hot and eager, so much power barely contained beneath the surface. Hughie’s never been the impulsive type, but he’s always wished he was, and Butcher makes him feel like he can be.

“Please,” he manages to mumble, in between the hot, wet tangle of their mouths, to an answering twitch of Butcher’s hips, to the startling revelation that maybe he doesn’t need to be dominant, in order to be impulsive. “Please fuck me, right here.”

Butcher lets out a heartfelt groan at that, reluctantly releases him, looks into his eyes. “You want me to fuck you, here? When there’s a bed, ten feet that way.” He points upwards, to the ceiling.

“Can’t wait that long.”

“Knew I had to keep you. Fucking Starbucks, fuck were you playing at, Hughie?” Butcher's fumbling between them, though, apparently on board with the plan, working at the fastenings of his pants and then attacking the ties of Hughie's apron, throwing it on the floor and then yanking Hughie’s shirt over his head.

“I just wanted a fucking Frappuccino, Butcher,” Hughie hisses back before he can think better of it. “There’s no conspiracy.”

“There is a fucking conspiracy, to make you spend your hard-earned wages on a drink that’s seventy percent ice, ten percent shit coffee-”

By sinking to his knees, at least Hughie manages to stop Butcher’s formulating rant in its tracks. “Ten percent cream?” he can’t resist asking, with a wink, as he eases Butcher’s jeans down and holy fuck he’s not wearing underwear, so Hughie can just lean in and press his lips to the underside of his cock, thick and hard and all for him.

Butcher smells good, feels better, threads his fingers through Hughie’s hair and pulls, moves him exactly where he wants him no matter how Hughie strains against his hold, tries to get closer. Butcher keeps him waiting, and if it’s punishment for the Frappuccino comment he’s going to make another, because Hughie’s sure he’s never been harder. His own jeans hang loose around his waist, unfastened but still aggravatingly present, and when he’s allowed only to look at the swollen, reddened head of Butcher’s cock, he works at freeing his own.

He doesn’t touch just yet, beyond the necessary to give himself that relief, clenches his fists at his sides and then, having to touch something, sets them on Butcher’s strong thighs, stroking gently. He looks up, pleading with his eyes, licks his lips, does his best to act the appealing submissive.

Butcher’s definitely doing a good job of playing the displeased dom, even though he’s hard and waiting, even though Hughie’s already seen how badly he wants to have him.

“Please?” Hughie mewls pathetically. His mouth’s watering. He’s always enjoyed being made to wait but it’s so fucking difficult, when all he wants is to feel soft skin against his lips. He turns his head instead of straining forwards, is allowed to kiss and lap at the long fingers of one hand, wants to prove how good he can be, knows he can. There’s pre-come beading at the tip of Butcher’s cock and he wants to lick it off, wants to taste it, feel it burst across his tongue-

Oh, wait. He needs to earn this.

“I won’t go back there. Is that what you want?”

“It’s a start.” The now one-handed hold in Hughie’s hair tightens, Butcher’s fingers pushing back into his throat, testing his gag reflex. Nothing Hughie can’t handle. “No Frappuccino. No fucking pumpkin spice. No- jazz and writers on MacBooks and skinny teenagers with pink hair.”

Hughie’s squirming by the end of the rant, struggles not to drool when Butcher’s fingers slide free of his mouth and he agrees to that and more. “No muffins.”

“What’s wrong with muffins?”

“Does your- British baking thing not extend to English muffins?”

“No, we still call them English muffins, actually.”

This is unbelievable. “What?”

Butcher shrugs. “You call it American cheese.”

“Please don’t talk about cheese when I’m thinking about sucking your dick.”

Butcher grimaces, but he does also grip and feed his cock between Hughie’s lips, making them both groan at the long-denied relief. And when Hughie manages to make eye contact, he’s smiling. Little else matters, as Hughie’s finally allowed to taste, held back from taking Butcher deep in his throat like he knows he can but permitted to swirl his tongue, to suckle just on the head, to feel after waiting for so long.

Fuck, he wants it deeper, but he wants Butcher to control him even more, wants to be told what to do and how to please him and thank him for every single fucking chance he’s given. He can’t- quite voice that, in the moment, but he hopes his enthusiasm and willingness to obey speaks for him, makes a few broken noises he hadn’t intended, is permitted gradually to take, to let Butcher’s cock slide into the tight clutch of his throat and back out, testing the resistance, inching deeper every time.

It’s so much of what he wants and yet not enough, makes him moan with his desire for more, eyes fluttering shut as he does his best to savour the other sensations, the weight against his tongue, passing his lips, putting pressure on his soft palate. God, he’s missed this. It feels like it’s been so long. And it's Butcher, so tall and strong and implacable, that Hughie's being allowed, being trusted to see in the depths of this moment, driven by pleasure and possession like Hughie's never seen.

Butcher’s hold on Hughie’s hair is unrelenting, exactly what he needs, and the slide of his cock going deep cuts off Hughie’s grateful moan just in time for Butcher's own shuddering exhalation to seem loud in the enclosed space. He's enjoying this, and it gives Hughie a rush to know it's because of him, that he's doing something right.

Hughie realises anew that he’s on his knees in the bathroom, that he was offered a bed and passed it up, that he might really be the dirty slut he desperately wants Butcher to call him, hoarse and ragged as he loses control. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

And Butcher knows how to fuck his throat, like he’s done it before, how to ease in and linger, hips stuttering, until Hughie’s head is swimming, until his brain fogs and there’s nothing but them, nothing to do but breathe when he can and swallow around the intrusion, lap at what leaks, what spills onto his tongue and is smeared across his bottom lip, another debasement that makes him shiver, makes his cock twitch.

“You really mean it,” Butcher says, too, with some disbelief, strokes a thumb over Hughie’s cheek, makes him blink. He hadn’t expected affection, but he’s grateful for it, pushes into the gentle touch and smiles when Butcher does, meets dark eyes. “You’d do anything to stay. With me.”

Hughie thinks that might be Butcher’s way of saying he wants him around. He nods. His throat is aching, his cock too. He wants.

Butcher tips his head in the direction of the toilet. And Hughie shudders with fear or anticipation, and he moves, kicks off his sneakers and jeans, kneels on the closed seat, facing the wall, and whimpers when Butcher’s hands alight on his skin. 

He’s not hushed or urged quiet, thinks Butcher might just enjoy his helpless arousal and can’t bite back his sounds anyway. Butcher’s skin is surprisingly warm where it meets his, where palms smooth down his thighs, fingers trailing up again slowly, with reverence Hughie might be imagining.

He starts when Butcher kisses just above his tailbone, just breathes there for a moment, like there might be something about Hughie that’s worth savouring. His breath’s warm and damp, and it trails upwards, with his lips, over every divot in Hughie’s spine while fingers trace the lines of his ribs, make him want to shiver and squirm except if he moves, this might stop. Trembling, he lets his head hang, focuses on relaxing his body into stillness.

If he does something wrong at this stage, he’ll never forgive himself. Except if anything, Butcher is the one pushing for more, and Hughie doesn’t know if he always carries lube around him or if this is some kind of special occasion but he makes a ragged, involuntary keening sound when the first of Butcher’s long, thick fingers slides into him.

“How long’s it been, Hughie?” Butcher asks, and lets out a pleased little hum when Hughie ripples around him at the sound of his name, said so dark and low. He’s confident, and not gentle, coaxes Hughie open as he waits for an answer, even though the muscle is tight and resisting.

It’s practically a sob when Hughie finds the breath to confess, “’Bout a year. Not since-“ he cuts off, but Butcher knows him.

“You don’t need to say it. I know. Thank you. Relax for me, now.”

Hughie’s trying. It hurts. Strangled sounds escape him when Butcher perseveres, when he sets his other hand over the small of Hughie’s back, caresses and massages to distract him. Hughie knows it’ll feel good and he knows it with a deep conviction, but the first moments are alien and painful, not enough to block out the way his mind races, willing him to tense.

Soft lips touch his spine and he shudders, and for the first time the slide of Butcher’s fingers is easy, and he knows Butcher is smiling, can feel it, attractively smug and satisfied. The rub of his bearded cheek is unfamiliar but pleasant, the perfect contrast to kisses that grow increasingly wet, are accompanied by laps and swirls of his tongue in time with the coaxing motions of his fingers.

“That’s it, Hughie,” Butcher murmurs, too, breath hot against Hughie’s skin except where it’s damp from his attention. He’s touching Hughie on the inside, pressing up like he might be able to close the distance between his fingers and his lips through Hughie’s skin and bones, twisting to ease him open, sliding in and out to feel the clutch of him.

Hughie’s pleading for more before he even realises he’s spoken, only vaguely aware his cock’s perking up again, hanging hot and heavy. It was all too much until it suddenly wasn’t enough, and he curves his spine, tilts his ass up, presents himself as best he can. He can take it, he wants to take it, and Butcher makes a pleased rumbling sound when he says that, too, even though the words are a slurred mess, stretches him a little wider just briefly to test the resistance and hear him mewl.

They have to do this again. Hughie manages not to say that, but there’s so much he wants to do and have done to him in the presence of this man, at the mercy of these skilled hands and while watched by dark, intent eyes.

Thankfully, Butcher seems to be having the same thought, and although he slows, he’s still pulling his fingers out, leaving Hughie open and exposed, apparently unable to stop himself from going back in, rubbing where there was previously so much resistance. He groans when Hughie’s muscles twitch, try to close around him, can’t quite make it, presses his lips to the curve of Hughie’s ass. There’s so little distance between them.

“You’re not- this isn’t a thing for you, is it? Toilets? You’ll let me do this in a bed, too?” Butcher asks, and despite the general horror of the question he’s more reverent and breathless than Hughie has ever heard him. It warms him from the inside, gives him the confidence to tell the truth.

“Just- wanted it quick and dirty the first time. We can do whatever you want.”

“I think I might love you.”

Hughie’s traitorous heart squeezes, but he’s used to ignoring that, focuses on the present, on what he needs- “Think you could love me a little harder?” he asks breathlessly, because Butcher is poised, the thick, blunt press of his cock just hinting at the need for Hughie to part around it and it’s nothing like enough.

Butcher laughs then, too, like he’s as surprised by that as Hughie, and then he pushes in without any suggestion of hesitation and makes Hughie scream.

“You alright?” he asks, only when he’s balls deep and wrapping an arm around Hughie’s chest, pressing against his back, kissing his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair, lapping at his sweat-damp skin.

For a moment, all Hughie can do is keen, overwhelmed, everything just so fucking much. He’s supporting his weight on his elbows, resting on the top of the cistern but his arms are shaking, and he’s panting and trembling. The last thing he wants is for Butcher to pull out but he knows he’ll read Hughie’s inability to speak that way, manages to bite out a rough, hoarse- “Just move.”

“You’re fucking perfect, Hughie.”

And he’s not, but this moment is, the hot drag of Butcher’s cock through his stretched, sensitive insides, the lines of his toned chest against Hughie’s back, the faintest suggestion of chest hair. Hughie sobs and rolls his hips, trying to feel more, to take and be taken, more.

“What was it you said? Quick and dirty?” Butcher murmurs in his ear, with a scrape of his teeth, and Hughie whines.

“Please.”

The plea makes Butcher’s cock twitch, and pleasure shudders through Hughie at the brief, deeper stretch. And Butcher rocks back and forth a few times, testing the angles, his hands on Hughie’s hips, steadying him, spreading warmth through him from that connection outwards. He’s strong and he could fucking snap Hughie in half and at this point Hughie would probably let him but instead he smooths a palm up Hughie’s spine to wrap around the back of his neck, hooks the fingers of his other hand in the hollow of Hughie’s hip and yanks him in close.

There’s only the briefest adjustment to the new angle before it really begins. Butcher sets up an unforgiving pace, forces Hughie’s breath from his lungs with each vicious thrust, holds him so tight Hughie’s going to have bruises in the shape of his fingerprints. It’s perfect, so good Hughie can think of nothing but the two of them, the building pleasure, the ragged sounds of their breathing.

He’s stretched wide and open, hot and raw where their bodies meet, the sparks of painful friction shooting through him.

“Fuck, I’m going to ruin you,” Butcher pants, reverent or threatening, and Hughie shudders around him, craving the impossibility of more. He never wants to stop, but Butcher is surprisingly merciful, releases his hip -laughs at his objecting whine- and wraps a hand around Hughie’s cock.

He can’t stroke and keep up his rhythm, but he can shove Hughie roughly into the circle of his fist, and pound into him, and mutter praise amongst curses that Hughie feels more than hears. It all builds, and he’s shoved into coming with gasping, breathless sounds, has wet kisses pressed to the back of his neck with a tremulous murmur of his name. Butcher rolls his hips to bury deep just a few more times, holding Hughie close, before he groans and shudders, cock pulsing, just the gentle caress of fluid against Hughie’s insides.

Hughie doesn’t feel like he can move, presses his forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet cistern and questions his life choices until Butcher’s concerned, “You okay?”

And, no, Hughie hasn’t met all of the criteria that might have his life generally considered a success. But in that moment? When he’s breathless and aching and satisfied, Butcher pressed against his back, mouthing kisses against his hairline? “Yeah. I’m good.”

-

“Butcher has hired someone,” Frenchie warns him, a couple of mornings later when Hughie slinks down the stairs to the shop for the beginning of his shift. Frenchie’s in the kitchen, somewhere he is usually not allowed, rolling cigarettes on the counter. And yet for some reason MM’s not going crazy.

“Are you sure?” is all Hughie can think to ask, but MM nods, too, and he’s drinking coffee. They’re both hiding then, not baking. “At least it means we might be able to get some time off.”

“It means fewer hours, and I do not want to starve.”

Yeah, Hughie’s not really sure how that one’s going to work out either, actually.

He hears Butcher approach, too, from the main shop, and he’s got his equivalent of his customer service voice on. MM quickly scatters flour over a work surface, and Frenchie slips his cigarettes into a pocket. Hughie dives to switch one of the ovens on, like the whole situation isn’t already deeply unconvincing.

“And this is the kitchen. We make all our products on site.”

“You haven’t found it would be cheaper to order products wholesale?”

MM shoots an outraged look in the direction of the doorway. Frenchie winks at him. Hughie makes a run for it, slips out into the shop in search of coffee and nearly walks right into-

“Annie!”

“Hughie?”

“Oh, do you two know each other?” Butcher asks, in that fucking innocent tone of voice that’s weirdly convincing to strangers, apparently. Maybe they think it’s a British thing. It makes Hughie want to smack him.

And it takes Hughie a moment to catch up with the series of events that led them here, but- “What happened at Starbucks?”

“She got fired! Just for punching her manager! Can you believe that?” Butcher claps Annie on the shoulder hard enough that Hughie’s surprised she doesn’t stagger. “You can punch me any time you want, love, with everything you know about running a business.”

“Oh, I don’t- think-“ Annie attempts to object, looking to Hughie for guidance, who makes sure he keeps eye contact with a wholly unrepentant Butcher when he says:

“You might want to hold him to that.”

Butcher just winks at him, and crosses behind the counter to operate the coffee machine.

“I- haven’t seen you around lately,” Annie says, then, a little cautiously.

“Oh, Hughie’s been staying with me, haven’t you Hughie?”

“Uh-huh,” Hughie agrees, “But I’ve been thinking about going back to stay with my dad for a couple of nights, you know? He gets lonely. Because I’m here all the time, and it gets a bit much.”

Somehow, he keeps a straight face when a bark of laughter sounds from the kitchen

Annie is beginning to look like she very much regrets her decision to take this job.

Butcher hands her a coffee with a deceptive smile, and she nearly chokes on her first sip when Butcher passes Hughie his own cup with a softening of his expression, clear affection in his eyes and a tender kiss to the cheek. “Whatever you want, Hughie.”

Hughie’s knees feel weak. Goddamnit. Charming bastard. He gets a few seconds of glare in after an overwhelmed pause, and Butcher bares his teeth before ushering Annie in the direction of the office.

“So I haven’t run a business for that long. I’m still learning. What kind of security procedures did they have at this Starbucks of yours?”

Hughie has a bad feeling about this.


End file.
